“Sól swim,” continued Ashkr gravely. “He swim many distance and then he come to shore. He walk home many distance, after many year.” He looked at his friend and shook his head. “Many year.”
Sólmundr sucked his teeth in dismissal and tossed Ashkr’s hair. “Yes, yes,” he said. “I wonderful. Strong and beautiful. Rising from sea like a God.”
Ashkr snorted. “Like dead fish!” he said, fixing his hair.
“There is no slaves here. In this Kingdom. This is what I heard.” Úlfnaor gazed earnestly at Christopher when he said this, and Wynter realised that he was asking a question.
“That’s what I’ve been told,” said Christopher quietly. “That the King here is opposed to slavery.”
“And you,” Úlfnaor asked Razi. “You of colour.” He tapped his face, in case he wasn’t making himself clear. “You too are accepted?”
The irony of that had Wynter ducking her head to hide a bitter smile.
Razi nodded. “For the most part,” he said carefully.
Úlfnaor sat back. “And faith?” he asked.
Razi frowned questioningly. Úlfnaor looked to Embla for help; she creased up her face in an attempt to find words. “People of religion,” she said, glancing warily at Christopher, “of different religion. They are accepted?”
“It depends,” snarled Christopher.
Razi frowned at him. “No, it doesn’t,” he snapped. “Yes,” he said to Úlfnaor. “Yes, my fa… The King is very clear on it. Yes. All faiths are accepted.”
Christopher shook his head angrily and looked away. Úlfnaor leant back in his chair, looking very thoughtful, and Sólmundr and Ashkr went quiet. Embla just watched Razi’s mouth, her finger tracing a languid figure of eight on the table top.
Wynter looked at Úlfnaor’s pensive face and it dawned on her. They are thinking of relocating, she thought. They want to move their people South! Her heart sank for them. It was unlikely that the highly structured society in the Kingdom would suit a large tribe of nomads. You have been misled, I think, as to the likelihood of being accepted here. Someone has made you promises they are unlikely to fulfil.
Wynter glanced at Christopher. He was glaring out into the crowd, his lips tight, but the disapproval rapidly drained from his narrow face, and his mouth curved into a wistful smile as he watched the Merron dance. The music had whipped up into a mighty frenzy. The crowd spilt into groups of four and began to weave in and out, forming and reforming intricate knots and patterns. Suddenly, someone in the centre of the group leapt like a fish and Wynter gasped as his hand slapped the smoky beams of the high ceiling. The crowd whooped. Christopher and Wari yelled and clapped their hands, once, in a formal expression of praise.
Embla reached across the table and tugged Razi’s sleeve. “You dance, Tabiyb?”
Wynter snorted at the thought, but Razi’s mouth hooked up at the corner and he gave her a very smug look. “Actually,” he said, “I do!” He leapt to his feet, holding his hand out to Embla with a flourish. “Coinín taught me!” he yelled.
Wynter looked on, amazed, as her pirate swung his pale lady out onto the floor.
“Christopher Garron!” she yelled, thumping the quietly grinning young man on the shoulder. “What have you done to my brother?”
“It’s a rajput katar,” said Christopher as Ashkr examined his unusual belt knife, admiring the etchings in the steel. “Tabiyb bought it for me when he got the matchlock. He thought it would be easier to use for …” Christopher held up his brutalised hand and stiffly waggled his fingers. “He felt it would be much easier to keep a grip.”
“And is it?” asked Sólmundr, glancing at Wynter who gestured that he pass the knife across the table to her. She slid her hand into the metal brace, closing her fingers around the grip inside. It was very stable, like replacing her fist with a sword, but there was no fluidity to her wrist.
As if reading her thoughts, Christopher said, “I still prefer my dagger. Better freedom.” He made some swift, lethal movements with his arm as if striking quickly with a blade, and Wynter saw the Merron eyeing him thoughtfully. She smiled to herself. She would not like to face Christopher in an even match—mutilated hands or not, he would be a sly opponent, and quick. She was pleased to see this realisation dawn in the big men around her.
Wynter passed the katar to Úlfnaor just as Razi and Embla returned once again from the dance floor. Razi pulled a stool to the head of the table and Embla tugged Sólmundr’s hair and gestured that he move. Sólmundr and Ashkr moved up a seat so that Embla could take the chair beside Razi. As they shifted about, the men clucked softly under their breath in that suggestive, teasing way of theirs, and Embla tsked and hid a grin.
As he took his seat, Razi watched Christopher pass the falchion sword to Ashkr. The tall blond man turned the sword over and ran his hand down the blade, his navy eyes grave with admiration.
“It is Indian steel,” said Razi, “just like the matchlock and the katar.” He paused to drink from a beaker of cordial. His hair was so damp that he looked as though he’d been swimming. “When I bought it,” he gasped, passing the beaker to Embla, “the smith demonstrated cutting through a pig’s leg. It sliced through the bone in one blow. It keeps an edge on it like nothing I’ve ever seen.”
“They are tremendous weapons,” said Wynter.
“Aye,” sighed Razi, watching as Úlfnaor took the falchion and balanced it on his hand. “Aye. But in the end, they are just weapons. I’d rather …” he cleared his throat and shook himself. “Aye,” he said firmly. “They are marvellous. The men who made them were wonderful craftsmen.”
Úlfnaor glanced at Razi. He swung the blade around his shoulders, swiping it through the air with great skill and control. He grunted in approval and ran his thumb carefully across the edge.
“The Southlands is very strong in weapons,” he said. “This what I hear. There much powerful weapon here.”
Wynter glanced at Razi. He too had sharpened in response to this. “We are indeed a strong country,” he said carefully. “Despite our recent troubles, our King is much loved. His armies well trained.”
“And well armed?” asked Úlfnaor. “His son is great warrior, I hear. He have weapon of great power.”
“That’s a good story,” murmured Christopher with a casual lack of interest. “Who told it to you?”
“Someone,” drawled Úlfnaor. “Up North. It not true? He not warrior, this prince? He not have weapon?”
“Do the Merron spend a lot of their time discussing our royal family around their camp fires up north?” asked Wynter, smiling despite the tightness in her chest.
“I not say Merron say this,” said Úlfnaor, “I just say someone.” He dismissed the topic with a wave of his hand. “It not matter. I may be wrong. It can to be hard, sometimes, to understand when someone talk.”
Sólmundr snorted a little laugh through his nose. “Aye,” he said, “special when they not know you listening at the time.”
Úlfnaor shrugged. “I not help it that some people think Merron have no more intelligence than dog. It people’s own trouble, the things they say, thinking we not understand.” He grinned at Sól. A surprising expression in the Aoire’s usually grave face, at once charming and dark, filled with an unexpected depth of wicked humour.
“Who was it told you this?” asked Wynter. “What exactly did they say?”
But Úlfnaor just tutted and waved her off. “Just talk,” he said. “Half talk, half understood. It not worth the breath.”
Wynter met Razi’s eye. A great weapon, in the possession of the Prince. Had this rumour reached even to the Northlands? He shook his head. Later.
“You pass drink, Coinín?” Sólmundr gestured at the cordial.
Christopher went to pass the pitcher and grimaced when he realised it was empty. He looked around for the landlord. Wynter spotted the small man at a table across the room, gathering up empty pitchers. As he did his work, she saw him cast about to find his daughters and watch with
anxious attention as they wandered the room.
Shy, soft-eyed little things, the girls were refilling the bowls of olives and gathering up stray dishes. Neither of them could have been older than thirteen and the Merron paid no heed to them, but Wynter could understand their father’s concern. In the last few sets the atmosphere had taken rather a heated turn. These dances were blatantly suggestive of desire, their movements a good deal more lusty than would have been normally accepted, and Wynter had to admit, were these her daughters, she’d have packed them off to their rooms and locked their bedroom doors.
A handful of men by the door roared suddenly and laughed very loudly. The smallest girl flinched, though she was nowhere near them, and the landlord, his arms full of empty pitchers, gave his guests a suspicious look. He whistled for his daughters and they finished what they were doing. The landlord elbowed his way through the door to the kitchen and the girls followed close behind.
“Wyn?” Razi startled her by crouching down beside her and slipping an arm around her chair. He gazed hopefully up at her, his cheeks heated, his eyes wide.
Wynter laughed at his expression and pressed a finger to his nose. “You, my dear brother, look as though you are about to wheedle me for money!”
Razi blushed. “Well,” he said, glancing off into the crowd. “The Merron… the Merron are staying the night and I …” A smile wriggled around on his face for a moment, too embarrassed to become a grin. “Would you…?” he said. He looked back up at her, his face saying please. “Would you fancy sleeping in a bed tonight, sis? Would you like us to rent a room?”
Razi glanced at Embla. The lady was watching him with heavy lids, her chin propped on her hand, her blonde hair tangled around her flushed cheeks. The expression on her face made even Wynter’s heart go thud.
Oh! she thought.
Razi forced his eyes back to her. He bit his lip. Should they decide to rent a room, Wynter doubted that Razi would ever see the inside of it. She glanced at Christopher and he met her eye, his face contained. He was leaning back in a chair at the end of the table, his arms tightly crossed, his legs stretched out before him, taking his ease after so much dancing. His shirt was patched with sweat, his narrow face shining with the heat. His hair was in complete disorder. Wynter sat looking at him—her black-haired Hadrish boy—and she thought with great clarity, I love you.
Whatever expression this put on her face, Christopher’s mouth curved at the sight of it and he tilted his head, his clear, grey eyes questioning. Razi followed her gaze. He looked quizzically at his friend.
Wynter bent forward and whispered in Razi’s ear. “Would you let Christopher and I share a bed, Razi?”
His big brown eyes widened and he turned to stare at her, his expression shocked suddenly and uncertain. He looked so troubled that Wynter laid her hand on his neck and pressed her forehead to his, their old gesture of affection.
“Do you not love him, Razi?” she whispered, searching his face.
He swallowed and nodded. “I do,” he said, “very much.”
“Then, do you not think that he will do his best by me?”
He looked up into her eyes. “I do, Wyn. I think there could be no better man for you.”
Wynter raised her eyebrows. Well then? her look said, why the uncertainty? “We have made our promises to each other, Razi. I am certain that I love him, and I trust him to mean what he has said to me.”
Razi’s eyes slid away and he seemed to think very deeply. Then he shook himself and nodded once. Quickly he grabbed the sides of Wynter’s face and kissed her forehead. “Make each other happy, Wyn,” he whispered fervently. “There’s little enough joy in this world as it is.” He leapt to his feet then and clapped his hands. “We stay!” he exclaimed and flung his arm out to a smiling Embla.
“Lady!” he said, “dance with me!”
Embla slipped from behind the table and the two of them spun out into the crowd. Christopher watched, his eyes hardening briefly as Razi swung Embla into the air.
“What was all that whispering about?” he asked.
“We’re staying the night,” said Wynter, expecting him to look amused.
Instead, he grimaced and glanced around at Úlfnaor who was quietly discussing Razi’s matchlock with Ashkr. “Huh,” he grunted. “Well, it’s only one night.” He took a deep breath and let go whatever it was that was bothering him. “Girly,” he said, leaning over to Wynter and taking her hand. “They want me to play the last set with them. Do you mind?” His dimples made a sly appearance as he smiled a crooked smile. “I won’t be gone long,” he promised.
Wynter pushed his tangled hair back from his face. “I’ll be here,” she said softly. “I’m just going to get some more cordial from the landlord.” She leant forward and whispered confidentially, “I think you dubious Merron have frightened him away.” Their eyes met in amusement and she kissed Christopher briefly on the mouth before shoving him away from her. “Go on!” she said, “Go play with your drum!”
He slipped off into the crowd, and Wynter gathered up the empty pitchers and shouldered her way through the kitchen door. Something made her glance back, just in time to see Christopher mount the stage. As he reached for his drum, he turned his head briefly and looked at her. He grinned and raised his hand to push his hair behind his ear, then the door swung shut and he was gone.
Fire
“Hello?” Wynter stepped into the fragrant dimness of the kitchen and frowned at how still and silent it was. The big central table was filled with pitchers and beakers in various states of cleanliness, and the shelves by the wash tub were stacked with dripping dishes. There was no sign of the landlord, his daughters, or his cook.
A charcoal-grey cat sidled through the shadows by the dying cooking fire and Wynter caught its eye as she put her pitchers on the table. “All respect to you, mouse-bane,” she whispered, wary these days of being overheard speaking to a cat. “Where are the humans as live here?”
The cat blinked at her in disdain, then rolled its eyes and jerked its head to the partially opened back door. Wynter craned her neck to see through the gap. The door led almost directly into the woods. Surely the landlord hadn’t taken his daughters outside? She glanced back at the cat, but it had already slunk away.
I suppose I could help myself to a drink, Wynter thought, licking her dry lips and eyeing the barrels of cider and cordial. She was sorely tempted, but how mortifying would it be if the landlord came in and found her pilfering from his supplies? She swallowed against her thirst and moved deeper into the quiet, dripping gloom.
“Hello?” she called again, her hand falling automatically to the hilt of her knife. She came around the side of a locked cupboard and another door was revealed. Golden lamplight spilled a dim wedge on the dirt floor, and she smelled horse and straw. This door undoubtedly opened into the stables.
As she came level with the square of light, Wynter heard voices, low and urgent, speaking in Merron. She drew back into the darkness and moved to get a better view.
Sólmundr and Wari were standing in the barn, caught in a wavering circle of lantern light. Wari had a tight hold of Sólmundr’s wrist and he was speaking quickly and persuasively, stooped to look into the other man’s face. Sólmundr frowned and shook his head. Wynter made out the name Tabiyb, and she froze, listening carefully. Wari gestured desperately to Sólmundr’s stomach and once again said something about Tabiyb. Sólmundr shook his head and twisted his wrist from the other man’s grasp. Suddenly the two men paused with a start, and turned to look behind them, their faces wary.
“Cé hé sin?” growled Wari, glaring into the depths of the barn.
A small noise outside the back door distracted Wynter and she stepped backward to take a look out into the night. When she glanced back, Wari and Sólmundr were gone. The noise came again from outside, clearer now, and the hair on the back of Wynter’s neck did a slow rise as she recognised a human whimper. She drew her knife from her belt and, staying in the shadows, pushed th
e edge of the back door so that it swung fully open.
At the tree line, twenty or so feet away from Wynter, stood the landlord’s youngest daughter. The little girl was white-faced and dazed, staring into the kitchen, her eyes dark with shock. Her bodice was torn from her shoulder, hanging down in front, exposing her shift. Her cap was gone and one of her shoes.
What is this child’s name? thought Wynter, her heart racing. I know I heard her father call her something. She eased closer to the door, scanning the trees behind the girl. Laura? she thought, Linnet? Lorraine? Elaine! That’s it! Elaine!
“Elaine,” she whispered, edging into the square of moonlight cast by the opened door, her eyes still on the motionless trees. The little girl didn’t respond and Wynter glanced at her. “Elaine,” she hissed. She held out her hand. “Come here, darling. Come on inside.”
The girl’s eyes slid left and welled up; her small hands started to shake. Wynter moved closer to the door, searching the shadows behind the child. Then she popped her head around the doorframe. There was nothing there, just the moon-washed wall of the stables and a path leading around to the yard. Wynter once more offered her hand to the little girl.
“Elaine!” she said sharply. “Come here!”
The little girl put her hands to her mouth, her eyes glued to the shadows at the base of the wall by the door, and to Wynter’s horror, she took a step backward and into the trees.
“No!” said Wynter. “Come here!” Elaine raised her eyes to meet Wynter’s and suddenly a shadow detached itself from the forest and swallowed her whole.
Wynter cried out in shock and fear, then cursed herself for a fool as she made out a big man running through the shadows with the poor girl in his arms. She caught a brief glimpse of the child’s eyes, wide and terrified over the hand that was clasped across her mouth, and all Wynter’s common sense was swallowed in a blast of outrage. She turned briefly and yelled in Hadrish, hoping that the men in the barn would hear her. Then she ran like a fool into the darkness of the trees.
The Crowded Shadows Page 16